Rene
by Matrix-Twin1
Summary: We all know about Grantaire and Enjolras. But what if they were together, and moved on? Lame summary, I know. It's better than it sounds. Really. Grantaire/Courfeyrac/Bahorel and Grantaire/Feuilly flashbacks and obviously the unavoidable Enjy/R


This is a story I should have written several years ago. Time has passed since my obsessive, disastrous infatuation with one Marcelin Enjolras. I am not, I think, the same man I was. Maturity is something that one doesn't notice until it's arrived, and it's only by looking back that its effects can be clearly seen.

That being said. I first met Rene de Courfeyrac shortly before I met Enjolras, actually. I had heard the name; he was somewhat infamous, even though he had just arrived in Paris. His sexual appetite was almost legendary, and he was known for brief, passionate affairs that led to no end of trouble. I had not yet run into him.

I find myself sitting somewhere, on a stoop or a curb, feet in the gutter. I'm hungry; I haven't eaten since finding a few coins the day before and buying some cheap bread. I don't want to go home, as there's no food in the flat, and no doubt Feuilly is still out peddling his fans. He's worth more than he knows, but he'd never let me tell him. The days of him teaching me to read are gone, and I've stayed, puttering around his flat, helping him as best I can, and having a place to stay when the loneliness of my university dormitory room is too much for me to bear. I've never done well on my own, and it's almost always been my undoing. But I don't think I could change that, even if I wanted to.

So I sit, dreaming of wine, wondering if any café nearby could possibly still be foolish enough to give me a cup or a bottle on credit. I'm only very dimly aware of passersby, the occasional coat or skirt brushing against me. We mutually ignore each other, which pleases everyone concerned. One coat, of dashing black velvet (at least what I can see of it without looking up from my knees, and the trickle of water and more noxious things running between my feet) stops. The thought flickers through my head, oh please let this not be another impromptu sermon, trying to persuade me to allow god into my heart and redeem whatever sins I may have committed. Before I could look up, a man's face came into view. He had bent down to my level. This never happened. Had never happened. Anyone who took it into their…whatever…to speak to me, on the occasions that found me seated in some position of dejection, always made me look up, or stand, before they would begin. This man, in both a physical and symbolic way, came down to my level, met me where I was.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. This, again, had never been said to me. Not outright. Oh, maybe after a few lengthy paragraphs of commentary on the state of the city's poor, or god, or something of that nature, my all too personal and not particularly spiritual belly might be mentioned. (Not that I would get any real food out of these people. They would just mention it, as though passion and words would satisfy me. Not likely.)

"Yes," I stammered, too startled to mutter something polite, or even think about what I might say. He asked honestly; I answered honestly.

He was a remarkable young man—the first thing one noticed was his hair, raven-black and falling well past his shoulders. It was tied back, but as he had bent forward, the bulk of his hair had swung forward, hanging next to his face. His eyes were wide, gentle without appearing weak, and almost as black as his hair. They were subtly flirtatious; something about the quirk of his sculpted eyebrows, a whisk of his feminine lashes. His lips were full, soft and open in an expression of mild concern and seemingly genuine compassion. He was perfectly dressed, in what were obviously new clothes, tailored, immaculate and chosen to enhance every feature. My eyes still had hardly left his face, very close to mine. Closer than any casual acquaintance, stranger, or even most of my friends would have come. Feuilly, of course, being the exception. There was no space between us, at that time.

"Well then," he said with a glowing smile. I think I had forgotten that either of us could speak, for a moment. "Let's find you something to eat."

He stood, obviously expecting me to follow.

"Who are you?" I cried, too startled still to be less blunt.

"Don't you know?" he replied, all beautiful laughing tones and gentle mockery, "I'm Rene de Courfeyrac."

He was so new to Paris that he hadn't yet curtailed his name to be more fashionable.

He led me to a nearby café (I was never far from at least three cafes, it's my nature) which had turned me out several times in recent memory, marched right up to a waitress, ordered a grand quantity of food, and then turned to me. "And what would you like?"

I wasn't entirely sure I had ever been asked this question where food was concerned. I just ate what was put in front of me, or what I could scavenge, or…nothing. "I…"

"He'll have the same thing, then," the charming young man (who, I thought, couldn't be nearly as notorious as I'd been led to believe) said. "And some brandy. You look cold," he added to me, aside.

I'm not sure who looked more stunned, the waitress (who I had had a screaming match with not even a week ago) or myself. She could hardly throw me out, however, it was clear I was with this man, and just as clear that he had the means to pay for anything he ordered. Or was important enough not to have to.

I gave the poor woman a quick, roguishly bemused grin, and followed this Courfeyrac to a table.

"Thank you…" I murmured, not sure what else to say.

He waved a black-gloved hand delicately, dismissing my almost servile awe. "Of course. I'm glad I could help, in some small way. At least give you one good meal." As he peeled off his beautiful, expensive gloves, he added, "and what's your name?"

"Grantaire."

"No first name?" he asked, amused. "How mysterious."

I laughed. "It's Alain Grantaire, but I don't usually use my first name. I don't like it very much."

"Grantaire, then."

"Or…Capital R."

He laughed, clearly appreciating the little joke. "Capital R, indeed. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance." And he shook my hand.

I felt oddly at ease with this man. Even though his gloves alone were worth more than, well…everything I was wearing, boots included, I didn't feel the least inferior. I felt comfortable, and equal, and appreciated. Still overwhelmed of course. Wouldn't I have a story for…"Feuilly!" I had forgotten about him until this moment. How dare I eat all this food and have such an evening while he was on the street, working, coming home to an empty, foodless flat.

"A friend of yours?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Yes, he's my…I mean…I live with him, sometimes."

"He's your lover, then?" Courfeyrac said, with perfect candor.

I nodded, blushing a little.

"Hmm. Then you'll just have to take some food home with you, won't you?" And the man did, indeed, order still more food when the waitress came, to be boxed up for us.

We talked for hours, and ate, and drank, and time passed without either of us noticing. I was delirious with happiness. I had started out calling him monsieur, and then monsieur de Courfeyrac, and then just Courfeyrac, which he found charming and endearing. Finally, the café was closing. I bid him a very fond farewell, he made no advances, no demands that I satisfy him in return for the completely unexpected bounty of food and wine, and I took my food and went home.

I didn't see him for several months.

When we did meet again, it wasn't really him I noticed, I'm afraid. Feuilly had stumbled across a 'secret society', mostly of wealthy young students, who were determined to do some good in the world by dying bloody deaths as young as possible. I wanted nothing to do with such nonsense; I had my own studies to worry about, if I wanted to keep my scholarship. Feuilly would come home raving about their leader, a certain Enjolras (by this point, I had given up my dormitory room and was living with Feuilly exclusively. The university had decided to give me an allowance, as I was no longer living on campus, so Feuilly and I were a little better off). After many, many comments about this apparently intriguing man from my usually taciturn Feuilly, I gave in and attended a meeting.

I didn't hear a thing Enjolras said. My gods, he was beautiful. I won't even bother to describe him here, he's been described often enough, but…I didn't hear a word. After his speech, he approached the table that Feuilly and I were sitting at. After a brief discussion with Feuilly that could have been in Chinese for all I knew, those dazzling blue eyes were turned on me.

"Grantaire, isn't it? Feuilly's told me about you. What did you think of my sentiments? They must seem a little naïve to the two of you, being impoverished yourselves."

Feuilly must have explained to him my situation, of being discovered as a young man, sketching buildings to sell, by a university professor. This professor had arranged for me to get a scholarship to the college of architecture, and found me a tutor to teach me to read and write. Feuilly.

I stammered something suitable, not really thinking about what I was saying. I was lost.

Again, plenty has been said on the topic of Enjolras and I. And this story isn't about us. Suffice to say, I began spending more and more time with him, around him, near him. Feuilly grew, not exactly jealous, but realized that I was no longer satisfied completely by him. Enjolras and I lived together for just under a year. Things became strained. I drank to excess. I found myself without a place to live. I had given up my dormitory, with no way of getting it back (and the university less infatuated with me, as I showed up drunk or hung over to class, or didn't show up at all. I was lucky to keep my scholarship), I was no longer welcome with Feuilly, and I had little or no money. I rented and lost a series of cheap, horrible flats, and finally found myself on the street, for the most part.

I say for the most part, because every time I was truly desperate, really in trouble, there was Courfeyrac. He would find me, as though he always had some sense of my movements, offer me his bed for the night (or a little longer), food and company and peace and…perhaps love. The physical kind, at least. Or that's how he began.

When Bahorel moved in (I say that ironically—he took over. He more or less announced that he was now living with Courfeyrac, and that he was by no means asking. Courfeyrac didn't argue; Bahorel was a huge, powerful and temperamental man…with a giant cock and an appetite to match) there were a few problems. Bahorel had beaten me senseless a few times before, when he was drunk or just ornery and needed something to hit, making me less than gleeful about living with him, however sporadically. Courfeyrac would have none of it, however. He could be very insistent when he wanted to be, and he made sure that I always felt safe when I stayed with him. If Bahorel hurt me, Courfeyrac found a million little ways to make his life subtly unpleasant until he apologized to me. Before long, nights would find all three of us in bed together, sweaty and content.

I began spending more and more time at Rene's (I'm not sure when I went from calling him Courfeyrac to Rene). But I could never be entirely satisfied with this arrangment. I wasn't comfortable living off of this man, giving him nothing in return. I started avoiding him, making excuses, saying that I had found somewhere to live. I hadn't, of course.

It was winter. It was feverishly cold. I was going from café to café, trying to keep warm, when Bahorel found me. I was glad to see him.

"Come home," he said, almost as soon as he had seen me.

"Luc…" I murmured, "what do you mean?"

"Rene's. Come home."

I looked away, flushed.

"None of that," he said, grabbing my jaw and making me face him. "It's cold, you're coming home." He always was very blunt.

"I've already spent two nights there this week," I protested guiltily.

"So what?"

"So…that's a lot…"

"Grantaire…stop being ridiculous. Why do you think that you shouldn't spend all your nights with us?"

"I don't know, I just…"

"Well, you should. We've had a bet running about how long it would take you to realize that we wanted you to stay with us. Forever. I lost today, so I figured I may as well tell you. You've really lost, you silly drunk." And he hoisted me over his shoulder, carrying me out of the café.

I will admit, I was crying a little. "Luc! Put me down!" I protested, thrashing a little.

He dumped me gracelessly into a snowbank. "Alright. But you're still coming with me."

"You're…sure…? You've talked to Rene about this?"

"What's there to talk about? We like you. We like fucking you. We like having you around. You're a better cook than either of us put together." This was as close as he ever came to saying "I love you", and I wasn't about to make him take it back.

"I love you, too…" I murmured, a little wetly.

"Who said anything about love?" And he took me home to Rene.

I lived there for the rest of my life. The rest…well, you know the rest.

I still loved Enjolras, at least for the first few years. It faded with time, as I realized how much happier, less bruised, and less emotionally damaged I was with this man. These men. But mostly Rene. I don't know what I would have done without him.

Je t'aime.


End file.
